Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos

by William McDonald

  “I say we just blow the damn thing down! Robo-Droid, engage the thunder shield. We’re charging through. Time to rock and, or, roll.” Captain pulls his VR visor back down but is immediately electrocuted.

  Beep. “Thunder shield activated.”

  “Hairdo, might I suggest you not try that again? You see this hanger is bedecked in metal as is the Star Dancer’s hull thus our ship is rendered ungrounded. The Thunder shield is creating a circuit between the two metal surfaces. Ultimately the VR visor’s neural interface is transcoding the damage the ship is incurring to a language that even you can understand… pain! So, I’ll translate in simpleton’s terms, cut it out.”

  The communication screen lights back up.

  “Like delicate sprinkles on the sundae of despair, you are lost in the vastness of your misfortune. Your attempt to escape – quite rude- has been documented. I had planned a marvelous reception: dancing girls, cake, quiche – yes, even quiche! But you rebuffed my proffered hospitality with your actions. Now you miss out.” Swansea giggles deviously at this. “But I’m not without a heart. If you exercise your best behavior, you may redeem the continental breakfast on your itinerary tomorrow.” Swansea focuses on Hairdo. “Um, is he okay?”

  Hairdo’s body twitches sporadically as he jigs about the room, suffering the effects of electrocution. “I-I-I-I,” he tries to speak, then springs headlong into a counter. Botchit sighs approaches the captain and flips open his visor. His electrocution immediately stops.

  “Thunder shield disengaged.” Beep.

  “Hairdo don’t be the reason we lose the continental breakfast.”

  “That’s your concern?” Hairdo sputters indignantly. “He never once mentioned quiche or dancing girls… just vaguely hostile foodisms.”

  “Ahem!” Swansea interrupts. “Please, keep going I’m so invested in the K-drama you are weaving. So, he was hit by a car and magically transported to live in his favorite soap? And you were in a coma? Dreamed of your true love? Then, woke up, went back to work and your hunky paramour just happened to show up at your flower shop that very day! Ooh please do go on… I’m just going to further my enjoyment by flooding your ship with a noxious gas. Or would you rather join Cockmaster General who is en route to receive you?” The screen goes blank.

  “Botchit,” Captain Hairdo coughs. “Are you sure he said continental breakfast?”

  “Positive.”

  “Well if we’re in space, how do we know when it’s morning?”

  “I do not know, Hairdo. I do not know.”

  Chapter 2

  Prisoners of the Emperor

  Hairdo and Botchit tense with anticipation, only outwardly silent. The turmoil and bargaining are mental calculations. Their minds seek and dismiss faux-solutions, first sourcing their own psyche then turning fruitlessly to each other. No answers instantiate. Instead, their dread has manifested as a sound, leather boots clicking ever closer, closing the distance with determination.

  “Do you hear that, Botchit?”

  “I’m afraid I do, Captain.”

  “That’s the sound of impending confrontation.” Hairdo runs a hand through his hair and swaggers to the ship’s exit.

  “Please don’t do anything rash.” Botchit sighs, wringing his hands. His gaze whips to Robo-Droid. “Don’t think you’re exempt from this.”

  The ship’s door slides open just as the trio reaches it. Troops line both sides of the exit ramp. Their numbers queue along the entire length of the steel docking bay. The final guards are positioned on either side of a substantial utility door. Emerging through the threshold is a tall, muscular figure. He wears a peculiar mask. A bizarre etiquette is displayed as the figure darts through the door, trotting betwixt the twin strips of soldiers, arms flapping wildly, clucking all the way. With a surprising degree of stoic decorum, the soldiers salute the figure as it passes. All maintain neutral dispositions. Nearing the ramp’s end, the figure stops, raises its bobbing head and looses a final cluck.

  “A humanoid chicken!” Botchit gasps, reeling back.

  “I’ll handle this cock!” Hairdo blusters with bravado, reassuring Botchit with an overly hard slap on his shoulder.

  The chicken-man squawks and leaps, landing at the top of the ramp. He juts his face close to Hairdo’s, clenching just above the captain’s shoulder. Hairdo maintains his position but loses some machismo. Perspiring and breathing heavily he casts clipped glances to his side. The dynamic between them becomes awkward fast.

  “Greetings! I am Cockmaster General,” the chicken man blurts in an indeterminable accent, voice obscured by his mask. “Swansea Picklesworth, Duke of Evil has sent me to ensure you feel comfortable.”

  “Your niceties won’t—”

  Cockmaster General stops the protestation with a heavy embrace, guiding Hairdo’s face to his pillowy chest. His feathery arms cradle the Captain’s pert backside. Hairdo is entranced by the sudden eruption of friendly touching. He squirms with pleasure, twining his face at every caress of the enemy’s hands. The petting migrates to his spine, the gentle plumage tickling him through his uniform. Most puzzling is the embrace’s longevity, growing increasingly affectionate for the duration. Cockmaster’s strokes grow slow and gentle, transmitting an aura of undue intimacy. Hairdo endures every sensuous sensation during the mere five second hug, which was about fifteen seconds too many.

  “Please follow me,” Cockmaster General clucks, abruptly ending the embrace. With startling speed, he scampers back down the ramp reprising his spastic manner of arrival.

  Hairdo turns raising an eyebrow. “Botchit?”

  “When in Rome, Hairdo.” Botchit crooks his elbows and bends at the knees, then scampers down the walkway after the odd poultry fellow.

  “Fine, but I’m not making that ridiculous noise.”

  Beep. Beep. Robo-Droid agrees.

  With that, the three keep pace, behind their captor.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  In the deepest recesses of Space Station Tiramisu, unbeknownst to the Confederation’s soldiers and most certainly the emperor, Swansea Picklesworth is plotting on the currently purloined throne. Upright and straight-faced, hands clench at the armrests and his feet planted firmly on the ground. For many minutes he has been sitting there, eyes glued to the door for the first sign of Cockmaster General. Across the room, the door finally whisks open. The General trots through in his typical flamboyant fashion. Swansea’s composure breaks.

  “What’s this!” he demands, rising to his feet.

  “Our prisoners, Swansea.”

  “That’s Swansea Picklesworth, Duke of Evil. And why are they unbound, you cock!”

  “If I recall, Sir Duke, you instructed me to make them feel comfortable.” He turns to the prisoners, limpid amber avian eyes inches from Hairdo exhaling softly on his face. “Didn’t we make you feel comfortable?”

  “The hug was a little awkward,” Hairdo mutters, kicking at the ground.

  “Silence! All of you!” Swansea fumes as he approaches. “Dear Danish, I am not a linguist. Don’t you understand intonations? Inflections? Body language?”

  “Body language?” Cockmaster leaps to alertness, waving his arms frantically in a twisted semaphore.

  “Stop that! Must you always be so literal? Your only accomplishment was bringing them here. For that, I suppose the Popsicle of Doom may spare you its icy wrath. Now move!” Swansea Picklesworth waves Cockmaster aside and points a finger insidiously close to the tip of Botchit’s nose.

  “Yes?” the scientist stammers.

  “You are an Earther, yes?”

  “Ancestrally, yes.”

  “And judging by your garment…” Swansea delicately lifts the fabric of Botchit’s piss stained lab coat then limply drops it. “You’re also a scientist?”

  “I believe in the ways of Science, yes.”

  Swansea thoughtfully strokes his mustache formulating options. “Excellent. The Pudding of Malevolence shall greet you, Earth Scientist. Guards! Restrain him. Read
y the reeducation chamber. Yes, the Scone of sadness thinks he will do nicely.”

  Before Botchit can utter a protest, the guards seize him. His arms restrained by shoulder and armpit are torqued to contortion.

  “I already have two Ph.Ds.!” he begs. “Please! I’ve had enough schooling!”

  “You fiend!” Captain Hairdo tenses poised for combat. “In the name of the Interstellar Confederation of United Planets, I command you to release him at once!”

  “You command nothing here! Oh…oh, my. Yes, I feel it. The Popsicle of Despair beckons you, calls you ever closer…to your doom! Guards end him.” A wicked grin flashes across Swansea’s face.

  In an instant, Cockmaster General’s entourage surrounds Hairdo. Their metallic chicken beaked helmets reflect dozens of distorted, profusely sweating Captain Hairdos.

  “You’ll never get away with this, you insane dictator!”

  Swansea laughs loudly, abruptly stops and glares at Hairdo through the fold of soldiers. “Get away with it? Ha and ha again, you fool, I already have! Weren’t you the one sent here to stop me? And you failed! This exchange of dialogue has ended. Chicken guards ready your arms,”

  Disintegrator pistols snap away from their holsters, swooshing up to face Hairdo. His sweating intensifies, quickly drenching the rest of his face in panic. He hears the characteristic hum of the pistols as they initialize for discharge. “Aim,” each soldier adjusts their position. Their stance wide, feet firm, grips tighten, hands are steady.

  The moment intensifies, the room is shrinking around Captain Hairdo. His gaze darts from soldier to soldier, precipitously observing their body language for any means of escape. Then he sighs resigned. “Looks like this is it.”

  “Fire!”

  Boom. The door swings open and Emperor Elephantine swoops in, “up the grill! Fire up the grill! I hunger.”

  Captain Hairdo balances on one foot, arms covering his head, he shakes uncontrollably. Moments later, realizing he’s still alive, he dares to open a single eye, peeking through splayed fingers. Seeing that the soldiers’ attention has been diverted, he uncoils himself to his normal valiant posture and turns to face Swansea. Swansea oozes down the front, then out of the throne onto the floor in a boneless display of panic. Standing, the aspiring villain’s shoulders droop with dismay. “Not the green one,” Swansea scowls.

  “What was that?” The Emperor prances deeper into the room, ignoring Hairdo completely. His leaping and spinning ensures that the sporty green thong is prominently displayed.

  “Nothing, my liege,” sneers Swansea. “The imperial grill shall be blazing post haste.” His gaze sweeps the soldiers surrounding the captain. “But perhaps before then, may I do the honor of presenting our prisoners from the Interstellar Confederation of United Planets.”

  Elephantine’s frolicking brings him to his throne. “Halt everything. I have a craving! But what is the name of that fruit that is both round at the top and flat on the bottom?”

  “Truly I do not know my lord. But, if we could address the prisoners…”

  “You throw away the peel and eat only the delectable flesh… It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  “Is it of the citrus family sire?”

  “Focus Swansea, my hunger doesn’t wait for your fantasy words.”

  “Very good master.”

  “Muffin.”

  “Muffins aren’t a fruit, sire.”

  “Yes! Fetch me some of your delectable muffins, Swansea.”

  “But what of the prisoners?”

  “What prisoners?”

  Beep. Beep.

  Robo-Droid breaks through the ranks of soldiers to stand beside its leader.

  Hairdo declares, “Emperor Elephantine we’ve been sent by the Confederation to commandeer the butter that you have stolen and to demand the release whatever municipal property you hold in your possession. Butter is a controlled substance and banned by the charter of--”

  Emperor Elephantine slams a fist “The butter is mine!” Slamming both fists, “The Empire is mine!” Flailing and spluttering his body rippling waves of fat like a buffet pan of gelatin during a discount weekend, “and you shall pay for opposing me!”

  “Emperor, please!” Faces turn at the sound of Botchit’s voice. “It’s for your own good. Butter will kill you… in time. As our historical records indicate, it causes high blood pressure and cholesterol!” A crack reverberates throughout the chamber Bochit’s head jerks to the right.

  “Cholesterol, blah! Blood Pressure, ha! I eat Cholesterol for breakfast!”

  Mustering his strength Botchit retorts, “that’s exactly the problem!” The guard on Bochit’s right raises his hand, indicating that he risks another backhand if he speaks further.

  “Silly man.” Elephantine twiddles his fingers. “What do earth scientists know? That stuff’s just a bunch of hooey, like perpetual motion or the 21st century Earth’s ‘global warming’.”

  “Well actually…” Botchit starts then winces recalling his recent threat.

  Hairdo scowls. “Our scientists know well enough.”

  “Perhaps you should tell your frail-framed friend that until he’s tasted that decadent, deliciously creamy goodness, the sweet manna of the gods known as ‘butter,’ his opinions have no weight here. Guards take him away!”

  Before Bochit can utter a protest, the guards are upon him, one on each limb. Hoisted high above their heads with his joints all fully extended, Botchit struggles. His greatest resistance amounts to mild writhing. Clucking, the chicken guards hustle down the chamber towards the corridor.

  “Take this worm to the re-education center,” provides Swansea.

  “For feeding?” Elephantine tilts his head confused.

  “For re-education.”

  “Yes, but won’t the greasy goodness gunk up the circuitry?”

  “He is swarthy true, but he is no Greek…”

  “From butter fool, he must be educated the best way I know, through eating, the re-education machines shall sit cold tonight. I will not repeat, to the feeding chamber!”

  “But sire…”

  “Feed him!”

  Swansea scowls and shakes his head but acts as directed. He pivots to the side and activates a viewing screen to transmit the command. Meanwhile, Elephantine continues with his haphazard verdicts.

  “Imprison the flamboyant one and take the robot to our download center, see what information we can suck from his noodle…”

  The remaining guards converge on the prisoners.

  “That’s the last straw,” Hairdo protests kicking out, “You’ve gone mad with flour Elephantine! Your taste of triumph will sour!” Clamping him with bruising grips the guards shepherd him from the room. Robo-Droid, without faculties for concern, complies with his captors.

  “Oh.” Beep. “No?”

  Elephantine cocks his head back indulging petty laughter at the futility of his foes’ struggles. Pointing at Hairdo he proclaims, “You’ve just earned yourself a trip to the Butter Dome. I suggest you rest up, come tomorrow, you’ll be fighting for your life… and for my amusement.” The Emperor shifts back in repose massaging his tummy licking his lips, “Butter... Where are my muffins? Swansea!”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  The star base kitchen houses the most sophisticated culinary technology in nearly all of the known universe. Equipped with the latest in cookware; Elephantine demands a level of food excellence unparalleled with any other space-based ruler. It was with these high standards and proclivities that he appointed Swansea Picklesworth. Swansea, the once space dignitary, just happens to be the upstart son of a royal baker from the Quasar of Naroon. Everyone knows they have a thing for bread. Every baker needs an apprentice and like in many family businesses the position was passed down to him. But being the scion of a galactic bread empire did not sit well with the young Swansea. Possessor of a fine mind and heaps of ambition, he struck out to make his own way. After working his way up the ranks as aides and low-level government administrato
rs, he landed a prestigious appointment as the envoy for Naroon. It was in the execution of those duties that he met the Emperor Elephantine.

  Parties were never his idea of a good time even though it was a duty endemic to his position. When he finally could take no more carousing, he would usually secret himself to a warm dark corner of the kitchen and wait for the event to settle. It was in one of these frequent circumstances that he met Elephantine devouring a tank of sentient space prawns from a Cajun planet. Upon discovering his current position and cooking background Elephantine was inspired. Swansea would be his perfect counterpoint. When you find “the one” you know.

  After serving the emperor for over a decade, Swansea expects interruptions, both trifling and frequent. Half of his attention tracks the oven timer; the other half scrutinizes the kitchen view screen resentfully.

  “Muffins!” Elephantine’s visage explodes onto the monitor. His many chins hug the camera.

  “They’re almost ready, my lord.”

  “I hunger!” Communications end, the screen turns black.

  Swansea smiles. “Oh, Elephantine, if only you knew, these malign muffins shall be your undoing.” He breaks into an uncontrollably wicked, belly laugh.

  “Excuse me?”

  The laughter ends abruptly. “Who’s there!” Swansea turns to face a janitor, holding his trusty mop, staring vacuously at him.

  “Were you talking to me?” The Janitor slowly points at himself.

  “Yes. No! You incompetent— can’t I have an inner dialogue… With myself. Out loud. Without… Nosey busybodies butting in…”

  “Uhh…”

  “Go on, answer for yourself!”

  “Why didn’t you just think it?”

  “Err, maybe, I was, speaking to you, but it was purely rhetorical!”

  “You’re a pretty strange fellow.” Dunking his mop into a sudsy bucket, the janitor returns to his usual duties; dealing with nonsense and mopping stickiness off the floor.

  Insulted by “the help’s” disregard of his authority, Swansea’s eyes widen, redden and bulge. He extends an arm and begins to squeeze at the space in front of him, hand-aligns perfectly with the janitor’s neck. It’s a long sixty seconds before the janitor realizes what’s happening. Sixty seconds of Swansea’s finger muscles cramping.